


Desiderata: who if not you

by oh shit (aston)



Series: Desiderata [1]
Category: Socionics, mbti - Fandom, psychological typologies
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 19:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15979004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aston/pseuds/oh%20shit
Summary: The heir to the throne completely got out of hand, a hot-headed daredevil. Desperate parent and mentor decided to attach to him someone who would balance his explosive temperament, and seems like this idea is even being successful, but there starts to develop something deeper between the companions, which is absolutely not allowed. The situation is hopeless, and the prince, as already mentioned above, is stubborn and uncontrollable.





	Desiderata: who if not you

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely thank the authors of these text and idea — Yorik no Dokuro and Chiba Mamoru. I feel extremely proud and pleased to work with you and your splendid texts.

_Those in the grip of a strong drug - heroin, devil grass, true love - often find themselves trying to maintain a precarious balance between secrecy and ecstasy as they walk the tightrope of their lives. Keeping one’s balance on a tightrope is difficult under the soberest circumstances; doing so while in a state of delirium is all but impossible. Completely impossible, in the long run._

Stephen King, «Wizard and Glass.»

***

In the dead of night, the palace's silence was interrupted by the sound of coherent footsteps. Along the corridor, there went a dozen of guardsmen, carrying a lantern, with the trembling spark of which were lighted lacquered toes of their boots, cockades on their caps and knots of their swords.

They passed the aisle, which seemed to look quite elegant in the daytime, unlike now, by night, when even swaying tulle curtains reminded of ghosts — however, the guardsmen could not ever be called the timid ones. Suddenly, one of the four doors placed in the corridor opened in front of them. Out of it stepped a young man, dressed perfectly like an adult, and stared at the night guests.

«Sirs,» — blamelessly courteous, he requested them, — «may I help you in some way or other?..»

«It's alright,» — replied the first-going officer. Galuns on his uniform informed about the rank of lieutenant colonel. — «We're going out into the town.»

«Did something happen?..» — The juvenile tilted his head a little, so that dark curls, framing his face, streamed down his shoulders. — «Perhaps I might be useful for you.»

«I don't think so.»

«No-no, you'd rather ask him,» — said somebody from the dark, — «that's Balzac, he probably knows.»

«We're sent to find his Highness,» — officer sighed, — «by Emperor.»

So-called Balzac (whos age, if judged by mildness of his cheeks, hasn't even reached the point of sixteen) stepped back, letting visitors see a room behind his back.

«His Highness is at my place,» — he tranquilly said, — «deigned to rest. He is tired and very upset, if you know what I mean.»

«Actually, I don't.»

«The winner of today's races happened to be the bay Zorich, lord Ferrandy's protegee, while his Highness prefers the white breed.»

«Oh…»

«Alas.»

Officer looked behind Balzac's back. In the room, lighted only by a reading lamp, on a couch, distinctly short for him, slept a man, wrapped in coverlet fully — only the cavalry boots' heels were sticking out.

«I have an opinion,» — continued Balzac with a quiet, trusting voice, — «that his Highness was slightly… intemperate in his grief.»

«Got it. Thanks. Go back, guys, we have to report to his Majesty!»

Balzac waited for a while at the doorstep, and, as the guardsmen disappeared from sight, he closed the door, returned back into his armchair and immersed into reading. The silence of his room was disturbed neither by wind noise and sleeper's breath, nor even by ticking of clock.  
After less than an hour of this amusement, the idyll was broken by another footsteps, this time coming from the opposite side of the passage. With no rush, Balzac laid his book aside and peered out into the corridor again.

«Ah,» — the night reveler turned to the sound from the next door, — «you. Why not asleep?»

«Waiting, your Highness. They sought you.»

«Damn it…»

«I told them you were sleeping.»

«And they believed?»

«I presented them your sleeping body.»

On these words, Balzac's interlocutor stopped fiddling with the lock and raised his head. On his agile face a vivid mixture of confusion and interest appeared. He raised his eyebrow:

«Oh. Will you show me?»

«Sure.»

Balzac followed his vis-a-vis to the room and nodded at the couch. The night reveler — and in the light became clear that he was no older than Balzac, a red-haired and cheerful-looking fellow — approached and put up the coverlet. He glanced at the blanket, folded neatly in the shape of human body, and a pair of boots, attached from below.

«Well. And what if they decided to wake me up?»

«I would have marveled at how cleverly you managed to escape from me. I would have complained about your propensity for surprises, they would have laughed at me, and all would have ended safely.»

«Looking for Prince Napoleon turned out to be such an interesting thing», — the ginger one shook his head. He lowered the coverlet, and suddenly pulled Balzac to him, clasping in a friendly embrace. «Thank you,» — he said.

Balzac, confused by such a manifestation of feeling, hesitated with an answer, freezed in an awkward pose, and then patted his Highness' shoulder uncertainly, as if he had never tried it before, but only saw how others were doing.

«It's not worth thanking me, your Highness.»

«It is!» — the prince said eloquently, releasing him. He carelessly pushed the blanket doll away and sat onto the couch. — «I am, you know, impressed.»

«Just an innocent prank, sir, to which, I think, resorts every child.»

«No, I mean, you helped me. That's what I'm talking about. It doesn't matter how large the forgery was.» — Balzac sank into his chair and paused for a few seconds, propping his sharp chin up with his hand.

«You see,» — he finally answered, — «I was taught to return the favor.»

After these words, the young prince looked baffled. — «What do you mean by this?»

«Ah, well. Remember our dressage to the Kassel Forest less than a week ago?»

«I do, and so what? Not sure if there was any kindness.»

«You knew that I'm not a skilled rider and made sure that nothing unpleasant would happen to me. Don't you remember?»

«For God's sake, I held your stirrup and twitched someone's rein for a couple of times. You keep in mind such trifles!»

«That's not trifles, your Highness, but a concern for another person, although he is not very pleasant for you. Don't look at me like this, I'm perfectly aware of that my company is not what you dream about.»

Napoleon put his feet up and yawned into his fist. — «Rubbish. Better tell me something sage and useful, as you usually do.»

«Please, go to sleep, your Highness.»

«Gah, I forgot to add 'and not that boring'.»

***

Balzac almost didn't remember his parents. His mother died of phthisis when he was an infant, and his father was always on the road, entrusted taking care of him to nurses. He was at some incomprehensible public service — it took fifteen years for Balzac to understand examining the old father's papers, at which exactly. The Reconnaissance Agency could not call this person a very valuable figure, however, he managed to render several weighty services to the Emperor before his dangerous way was stopped — just like the way of any agent is being thwarted.

Balzac didn't realize it for a long time — he simply noticed that the parent had stopped those rare visits that sometimes he still committed to the family house. When Balzac was seven or so years old, the aged majordomo, who served his mother, wrote a petition to the capital, and the boy was taken to a closed lyceum, studying in which was considered as prestigious and honorable. In fact there, as in any other closed institution, existed their own rules, not always consistent with simple and human concepts of good living. Balzac could not say for sure when exactly he realized that he was alone in this world — just at some point this awareness became akin to him, took on his form. He already knew that his father wasn't alive, but didn't languish about it: they had no close affinity in the rare encounters between them. His lyceum fellows — sons of impoverished noble families, prosperous nouveaux riches, or clumsily awaited promotion in military service — were neither colorful nor very pleasant public. In every person Balzac found some wormhole, and although he was aware that it was wrong to do this wrong, he could not stop at all. His world was small and painted in a calm gray color — the same as the walls of the lyceum. The world of dormitories, classes and libraries, where he spent all his free time.

When he was about ten, he fell ill in the winter, and was taken to the infirmary — and then Balzac appreciated all the charms of loneliness and the advantages that this condition gave him. Drawing the appropriate conclusions, he tried to ensure that the sisters of mercy — ever-creeping full-grown old maidens in starched white kerchiefs — firmly convinced that his health was weak. A single small room in the hospital wing was a much better prospect than a bedroom for eight people, where he couldn't read as much as he wants even at night. He did not think about what he would do further — and when this thought visited his head, Balzac found nothing attractive in it. Apparently, he would return to his father's house and control the piece of land that he left. As if he had other perspectives…

However, he did not know too much. For example, the fact that only a dozen miles far from the lyceum, in the Imperial Palace, the monarch sits in his office and sorts the files, with the characteristics of various students, and a photo pinned to the corner. He did not know that in front of his Majesty's table stood an old man with a grumpy bilious face, gouty hands, and his bald skull resembling the head of a griffin. With a squeaky voice, this unpleasant gentleman said:

«Absolutely, completely uncontrollable, your Majesty, hothead, slacker, ribald…»

The Emperor scowled. Those speeches did not please him at all, but he knew that listening to them was necessary. Also, some strange warm feeling was awakened with these unpleasant words in his soul: some kind of dark pride for unbridled filial temper.

«Well,» — he dropped, and the gentleman immediately fell silent. — «I think he needs a friend. Someone who could balance it, or, perhaps, distract from tricks. I've found here…»

He threw the sheets with the dossiers on the table. Dozens of boys' faces on the photo cards looked at the Emperor unsmilingly.

«He must be a nobleman, for his estate to not lead him to unworthy actions, and have good feedback from teachers on academic performance. And, of course, calm temper. Um.»

The Emperor suddenly frowned with his gray brows, catching something with a glance, took one file out of the pile, and looked at the picture.

«A familiar face,» — he remarked. — «Ah, of course. Son of our Gray Mouse. I remember that the informer was a good one, I'm sorry he ended up badly. And the son has the same acid mine. He's an orphan, right?»

«Yes, Your Majesty,» — the collocutor nodded assentingly.

And this circumstance eventually became decisive — the Emperor thought that the lack of relatives is a compelling argument. Thus, no one of adults will swarm into the immature prince's soul with things not intended for him.  
Balzac did not know all of this. When in a few days the teacher told him to stay after the lessons, he obeyed unquestioningly, having no idea what it would result in.

«The inspector came to the lyceum,» — the teacher told him, when they were alone. — «Go to the headmaster's office, you were chosen as a well-performing young man, who can be entrusted with an important conversation.»

Balzac kept silence. He did not care whether there came an inspector or some other important guest. He went where it was said, knocked, went in and greeted, almost not looking at the visitor. And when he looked — he noted how much he was like a gryffin. However, this consideration he kept to himself, without smiling or demonstrating his feelings. Not showing anything either with face and voice was simple. Simple and safe. He wondered why everybody didn't act like this.

The inspector started asking him all sorts of questions — easy and tricky, asked whether Balzac liked to study, whether he valued relations with his comrades. Balzac patiently explained that for him the teachings were the most interesting thing in the world, and as for the comrades — they are too different people to find anything in common. The inspector seemed to be satisfied with the answers. He ordered Balzac to walk a little in the corridor, and left to talk to the headmaster. Balzac only shrugged his shoulders — the request to walk in the corridor put him in a dead end. Where can you walk when there're only three dozens of steps along a straight line next to the row of windows and back? «Leave us until we discuss with the headmaster things you don't need to hear,» — that would be easier to understand.

However, the inspector freed quickly — he went out into the corridor, and asked Balzac to follow him. They came down into the courtyard where the fine carriage, harnessed by four horses, was waiting for them. The lackey immediately jumped off the footboard and hurriedly opened the door in front of them.  
«Get in,» — the inspector ordered, and when his young companion obeyed, he followed. He slammed the door, and the coachman did not shout anything — he clicked the whip, and the crew began to move.  
Balzac looked out the window. Where are they taking him? For what purpose? God knows. In fact, it wasn't important: whatever it was, it was unlikely to be worse than a boring daily routine.

When they entered the opened forged gates of the palace garden and stopped in front of one of the entrances, he no longer knew what to think. The inspector led him up the stairs, making many turns — it's amazing how he did not get lost in this maze — and Balzac followed him, fearing to tarry.  
Finally, they found themselves in a spacious bright office — it was already dark outside, but there were two chandeliers burning at once, and the shadows were short as at noon.  
A man sitting at the table was recognized by Balzac instantly — his portrait hung in the central hall of the Lyceum, and even in the library: nolens volens, you will remember. Of course, he was also on coins, but Balzac never had pocket money, and somehow did not think of this aspect at all.

The conversation was short and emotionless: His Majesty recollected that the father of his young guest had provided many valuable services for the crown, and now it was the turn of his worthy descendant to continue this wonderful tradition. Balzac listened and nodded in the right places, answering the frequent question of whether he understood the said good enough. He saw nothing complicated in the Emperor's words, as well as nothing good. Tracking down the impudent Prince was no joy at all. However, no one asked him.

He was taken to some room and informed that now he would live here. His things were already delivered in the morning, and there were not many of them — a change of clothes and a few notebooks of bad cheap gray paper.  
And, in spite of the fact that the bed was much softer and more comfortable than the one he used to have, Balzac hadn't slept for a whole hour, excitedly remembering the details of the incident, trying to predict what would be further. He came up with nothing and didn't even think of how to act in such a swell society. He fell asleep anxiously — and woke up at dawn, when the sentinel played the morning callsigns downstairs.

***

For a long time no one came to see him, and Balzac was too ashamed to come out and look by himself, so he waited patiently, examining his new abode. There was a lot to look at: he had never seen so graceful furniture made of smoothly polished wood, a tapestry with a cunning pattern in arabesques, so thin embroidery on seemingly quite ordinary things. But an hour later he became bored with it, a palace is a palace, and there was no reason to wonder.

It was already close to noon when a man in livery went inside without knocking and invited to follow him. He led to a large room — maybe a drawing room or a reception room — and left with a bow.  
Balzac did not have time to look around — an unknown person jumped down from the window-sill — on closer examination it turned out that he was no older than Balzac — approached and unceremoniously examined the guest, circling him around.

«So, dad appointed you as a companion of mine,» — he drawled, and that was not a question. Balzac realized that this red-haired, strong-looking guy was his Highness Napoleon.  
Balzac liked neither his appearance — decent, but still somewhat sloppy, as if the prince didn't care about it — nor his tone. He thought that the prince was obviously the same as the worst of his previous classmates, but in relation to him it would be impossible to use the same methods as at the lyceum. The future will show though. His life may become so unbearable that it will be easier to betray the Emperor's trust and return to his educational institution, thereby putting paid on the future career.

In the earlier times of his apprenticeship, Balzac used to build relations with his classmates in such a way that they did not have any desire to communicate with him. Behind his back, they called him «a gloomy fish» — and, to be honest, they were not far from the truth. In their colorful bright existence there was no place for always a bit apathetic and seemingly not interested in anything Balzac. With him it was not interesting not only to speak, but even to fight: he knew how to spoil any pleasure for peers; so they quickly lost interest and left him alone.

«Why are you so quiet?» — The prince pushed him a little. «Almost lifeless! Come on, look at me directly!»

He unceremoniously grabbed a new acquaintance by the shoulder and turned his face to the light. He squinted and frowned his eyebrows, as red as his hair, meticulously studying:

«What's your name?»

«Balzac.»

«I'll try not to forget. Come on, icicle, melt down and tell me something — about yourself for example, i have to know who i deal with! About me you've already heard everything from my father, haven't you?»

Balzac shook his head negatively.

«No?» — Napoleon was surprised, — «strange. Dad likes to tear me to pieces in front of others. I wonder how he missed such a brilliant opportunity.»

«It was too late yesterday.» — Balzac replied indifferently. — «I suppose he had no time for it, and I'm not the one who he could possibly talk with.»

«How old are you? Fifteen? Well, just like me then. So, that's you who was brought here yesterday? When?»

«At about eleven past midnight, I suppose. I haven't seen the clock, so cannot tell the exact time.»

«Well, and what then?»

Napoleon at last stopped staring at him, as at a picture on a wall or — such an unpleasant comparison — an item in a shop. He, relaxed, went to the sofa and settled himself there with comfort, now looking from a distance. As if he made up his mind to use all the available means of observation.

«His Majesty briefly described me what's going on and gave me the opportunity to relax. Ten minutes ago they came for me and brought me here. No more events occurred.»

«What.» — Napoleon's living face jerked. — «Go eat! You're a bag of bones that's terrible to look at.»

He noticed that Balzac hesitated, stood up, grabbed his hand and led him to a round table near the window, covered for a light snack. At the sight of apples baked in a dough, stuffed quail eggs, and tender meringues, anybody would drool, especially a man who hasn't eaten a thing since yesterday's dinner.

«What a people!» — muttered the prince, — «Brought here a person, told him stories and left him be… Come on, don't be shy, I will be offended if you refuse. And then you're gonna tell me about yourself.»

And that's how their acquaintance happened, not much pleasant, but also not repulsive. After breakfast, Napoleon still pestered his new companion with all sorts of questions, but then appeared a gryffin-like gentleman and respectfully invited His Highness to class. The Highness scornfully responded that he had more interesting things to do.  
Balzac looked down at the patterned parquet. He felt uncomfortable to become a witness and participant in such a scene.  
The sly teacher of His Highness said:

«I dare not order you, prince. And you, Balzac, get into class, there's nothing to stray around.»

He obediently got up, but had only three steps to pass — and was stopped by an indignant voice:

«Stray?! I need him here!»

Then the mentor explained in details that he, of course, did not have the right to tell his Imperial Highness what to do, but, above all, his companion was fully in command of the head of the teaching department. Balzac had no certificate of completion of education, and therefore he had to obey.  
Napoleon made a displeased mine and followed him — he wanted to be alone even less than to go to the desk. This feature — the desire to be surrounded by people and to certainly certainly command them — Balzac noted pretty quickly. When the teacher mentioned the prince's lack of restraint and the inclination to blow up at the slightest occasion, when something went not the way the prince wanted, he did not exaggerate at all — rather, he underestimated.  
However, the cunning mentor managed to turn this property into good: knowing how jealous the prince was to praise, he distinguished his companion in classes, offering His Highness to compete. Of course, Napoleon threw himself into the battle without looking back, and immediately discovered that his knowledge was inadequate comparing to Balzac, who spent all his free time behind the book. This was, oddly enough, not anger, but provoking: he took up what he considered the most difficult, in order to one day leave an opponent behind him.  
However, he still remained indifferent to reading, and Balzac, accompanying the prince almost everywhere, soon got used to the situation, which was repeated from day to day. His Highness was busy with various things: flipping through maps — he showed interest in the plans for the battles of days gone by, which was entirely approved by the Emperor — polished the blade of his sword, or even shamelessly slept in broad daylight, and his companion, sitting nearby with a book, read. He supported the conversation, inserted cues, gave advice or answered questions, but did not raise his head from the pages, and Napoleon wasn't intended to interfere with it.  
In the early days he, greedy for everything new, tortured Balzac with questions about what was happening outside the palace. But he could not tell a lot to the prince — he had spent almost all his life in the gray walls of the Lyceum, and stories about them quickly become boring to Napoleon. He was desperate to go there, into the world, which for some reason was closed to him — so he ran away from the palace at the first opportunity. He also invited Balzac, but the latter invariably refused — soon the prince waved his hand at this homebody and went away alone.  
Balzac knew that he was friends with the guardsmen, using the fact that not everyone knew him in person. Napoleon staggered through the capital streets with the onset of darkness, returning often only in the morning — and usually oversleeping breakfasts. Balzac, feeling some indirect blame for what had happened, knocked on his bedchamber, trying to wake him up, and was often impolitely sent to hell. However, being awakened, the prince always with ardor apologized for his curses — Balzac did not reproach him at all though.  
On one of the usual days, which in their lives were similar one to another, they were sitting in the palace library — the way to this place was the first thing that Balzac learned. Napoleon entertained himself with some antediluvian musket: he dismantled the trigger and studied what was in it was damaged, and why he did not work. Covered the table with today's newspaper, His Highness laid out all the details of the musket and checked the description on the picture in some old book. His companion sat down in an armchair, leaned to the book — on the eve he was lucky enough to have found a real treasure in the library. An ancient epic about the journey and misadventures of the ingenious Ulysses, the ancient Hellenes, was interesting for him a couple of years ago, but in their Lyceum the part of the book — namely its ending — was eaten by mice. For two years Balzac was tortured by the unknown, and now, at last, he found this story in its entirety. Knowing Hellenic quite well — it, along with the Roman language, was taught at the Lyceum for «gymnastics of the mind» — he could afford to read in the original. Having reached a particularly smart plot twist — another trick of a clever main hero — Balzac could not restrain himself. He snapped once, twice, then frankly giggled, trying to do it as quietly as possible. But Napoleon, of course, still heard and and with interest raised his head from his entertainment.  
«What have you read there?» — He asked.

Balzac shook his head, but the prince was persistent.

«Read it out loud, we'll laugh together.»

«You do not know the beginning,» — the companion explained to him. — «It's completely incomprehensible without a context.»

But on the word «no» the prince always reacted the same way — ten times the pressure, so that a minute later Balzac read to him the ill-fated excerpt, and, of course, His Highness did not understand anything. He turned away offensively, and Balzac continued to read.  
How could he know that in the evening, when they wished each other good night and went to the bedrooms, the prince on the way will look all at the same library, find the Ulysses already in his native language, take it to him and read for a night in one sitting?..  
In the morning, about seven o'clock, Balzac woke up because of laughing behind the wall. Still not fully awake, he sat down, trying to figure out what kind of attack it was. And the prince was already running to him, not at all embarrassed either by the time, or by the condition of his companion.

«No, can you even imagine!» — he said, flopping to the edge of the bed, — «so if there were at least one sheep less, nothing would have happened!»

«Mhm?» — Balzac took his hair off his face, still not quite awake. His Highness began to rehearse the story with the sheep, and somehow they argued about a place that they understood in different ways. Napoleon insisted, Balzac was obstinate, and after an hour, made sure the companion had put himself in order, the prince dragged him to the library, where they found another translation of the ancient text, and armed with all three books, were trying to sort out a difficult moment. They didn't care about the missed breakfast, and that the time reserved for classes has already ended — after waiting for them in vain for half an hour, the mentor, after all, went on a quest. He was sure that the insufferable prince had knocked his quiet friend to some kind of leprosy. Probably they escaped from the palace somewhere to the city — no wonder, they're just young — and imagine how huge was his amazement when he found both of his students in the library, doing such things!  
He had persuaded His Highness to pay any attention to classical literature for a long time, but all the exhortations made nothing.  
And now the prince by himself decided to read, and discusses it so lively!  
Napoleon, suddenly to some extent discovered this unexpected side of the books, realized why his companion was so attracted to books. Partly because of curiosity, partly being jealous, he demanded Balzac to read to him aloud while he was engaged in some business, and his companion unquestioningly agreed. However, it soon became clear that he could not read aloud for a long time — his throat was tired, and his voice went to whisper. Willy-nilly, the prince had to take up the task himself — after all, it's interesting how the whole thing ended! — and he did not notice how he got addicted to books himself, nevertheless, still preferring words spoken by living people.


End file.
